Loitering
by thedancingcrown
Summary: Jason's attempts to leave a familiar porch are rudely interrupted. (rated T for safety)
1. Always the Considerate One

_A/N:_ Like _Stitch Talk_, I'm sharing this to save it from being completely pointless. Mostly I was just playing with dialogue, and character, and characterization, and whatnot... That said, I can't speak for how _in_ character this is, though. Moo. Feel free to leave a comment, let me know what you thought - feedback is always much appreciated :) And as always, thank you, and for reading! Enjoy :D  
(some colourful language appears, because Jason. Duh. XP)

* * *

**{Always the Considerate One}**

It was starting to look – and feel – a little like Jason's mood – overcast and chilly.

What bright sunlight had accompanied his arrival had been dimmed with the ever-quickening crawl of deep grey clouds crossing the sky.

If it started raining soon, he didn't want to be here anymore.

Probably hadn't wanted to be here when the sun was still shining either.

Ugh.

What had he been thinking – making the trip only to stand in front of the door?

Idiot.

_…_

Anyway.

If he was going to leave, now was the perfect time – less he gets drenched in a storm and catches a cold on his way home to boot. And wouldn't that just be his luck?

Yeah. Definitely time to leave.

Scowling at the doorknob – the details of which he could replicate masterfully he'd been staring at it so long – one last time for good measure, Jason spun on his heel and crossed the porch, bounding down the steps two at a time.

He was barely clear of the platform, though, when he heard the door swing open in a rush, footsteps meeting the wooden floorboards with quiet fervour.

He didn't want to stop.

"Jason – come inside."

If it was said with anymore force it would be a blatant command, and any more emotion would turn it into a desperate whine.

As it was, it was just… _Dick_.

…Naturally.

"Can't," he said shortly, not stopping, not turning, not looking back. Concealed in the pockets of his faded jeans, Jason's fingers curled into fists. Figured Dickie-bird would wait until he was ready to _leave_ before inviting him in.

Probably the golden child had been watching him from inside the entire time. Probably didn't want to be…_overbearing_. Wanted to take Jason's _'feelings'_ into consideration, allow him to make up his own mind, pick his own choice—

Only, it apparently didn't agree with _Dickie's_ choice for him.

"'Can't'?" the older man echoed, feather-light steps on the stairs, easy strides in the wake of Jason's heavy footfalls, but Dick didn't pass or come up to him. "But you've already been here an hour!"

Shit. Had it really been that long?

_Shit._

"Yeah, and that's all the time I got," he said gruffly, feebly quickening his pace – Dick kept up with him easily.

Somehow the distance to the gates – to his _freedom_ – at the edge of the grounds seemed so much farther than when he'd ventured the trip in the other direction.

"_Seriously_, Jason?" there was a hint of exasperation in his brother's tone now, but it only served to aggravate Jason a little more. "That's it? You came all the way over here just to loiter on the doorstep?"

_No. _No, not _just_ to loiter. To loiter, and then _leave_.

The hell kind of person actually _says_ 'loiter' anyway? It's used for window signs to confuse and annoy all the people standing around trying to figure out what it is they're _not_ supposed to do, because nobody actually knows the _meaning_ of the word.

Must be _'No Littering'_ – somebody should fix that.

Jason bristled, came to an abrupt halt and spun round with a finger raised at the shorter man.

Forget 'loitering'.

It grated how true that sounded.

It grated how much it sounded like his own admonition from earlier.

It grated how he couldn't be certain it was Dick sounding like his head, or his head starting to sound like the Golden Boy.

It grated to realize he actually _agreed_ with the _wonder_ of Boy Wonders.

Fuck it all.

"Screw you, Grayson," Jason snapped, Dick halting mid-pace at Jason's sudden invasion of his personal space. "If you wanted me inside you should have opened the damn door and said so!"

"I _did_!" but Jason had already turned about and started his march to the gates anew.

There was no missing the indignation in Dick's tone, even though he'd managed to give whatever expression accompanied it a miss.

His brother was paler than he remembered, he'd noticed.

His hair was longer, scragglier. His eyes seemed brighter. Somehow, _bluer_, if that was possible.

It made for a sharp contrast against the ghostly white of his skin, his chapped lips; even the circles under his eyes seemed a _faded_ shadow, somehow.

_…_

The leather of his gloves clenched and squealed in protest as Jason tightened his fingers.

What – was Dickie _sick_…?

_…_

No.

He couldn't _care_ less.

_…_

"Yeah, only when you saw me leave," he shot over his shoulder, spiteful.

An aggravated huff came from behind, "I was hoping you'd knock, ring the bell – something!" So he _had_ been watching. Of course. _Ass_. "I wanted you to. I didn't _want_ you to _leave_, Jay—"

"Well, then you shouldn't have _let me_," the argument suddenly sounded very _petty_ to Jason's ears, even as the remark seemed to sting – _him_. And why the hell should it sting?!

"Well is that what you wanted? For me to open the door and _force_ you inside? You wouldn't have been pissed and yelling at me _then_?"

_Oh no, Dick Grayson. Golden Boy doesn't get to do that. Not this time._

Dick was not going to turn this around like he was the bad guy here (because generally Jason liked to think he was at least _decent_, if not good, and certainly not _all_ bad – the world was filled with worse scum, and he was doing it a favour by getting rid of them. So there. Not bad.).

Jason stopped a second time to give his brother a piece of his mind, "Oh, go f—" a pretty expletive on the tip of his tongue when his eye caught sight of the halfway opened front door beyond Dick's shoulder, a glimpse of black and white and a sliver of silver in the entryway, hovering in quiet observation. "—_Away_, Grayson," he amended, having no desire to incur the figure's wrath, though it left his retort with a lot less bite than intended.

The figure disappeared. Dick blinked. Jason scowled.

His older brother's brows knit together, lips curling into a disapproving frown – the entire expression making him seem young and adorable, and more dangerous for it. Jason had a moment to wonder if the villains of Gotham ever cooed over Robin's expressions when Dick had been the one in the hotpants.

Harley and Poison Ivy, probably. Catwoman almost definitely – you had to adore the Robin if you wanted…under the Bat's cape.

Heh.

"I _live_ here," Dick scowled, angry pink spots on his pale cheeks only accentuating the bleakness, as he waved a hand, almost in the direction of Jason's salvation. "_You_ go away."

"I've been _trying_!" Jason said, throwing up his hands, voice thick with frustration. "But – now that I have your permission," he added sarcastically, dipping into a mock bow on a whim, before he stepped back, regarded his older brother with a smirk and then turned away a second time.

There was a stunning, _painful_ moment of silence, before—

"Jason!"

Feather-light footfalls.

"_Jay_—" and this time Dick came right up to his back, planting a firm hand on his shoulder.

They stopped walking a third time.

It was only a few more strides to freedom.

_Damn it, Dick._

He made to shrug off the hand, but Dick's grip only tightened defiantly.

"The next time you find yourself pointlessly hanging out on the porch," Dick started before Jason could manage more than a breath, "And I'm not out in five minutes to haul your ass inside," that was a very serious, sincere, threat, if Dickie's tone was anything to go by. "It only means I haven't seen you yet. So…_knock_? Ring the bell? Just _come inside_." A beat. "Okay? …_Jason_?"

He was experiencing a flashback – emotionally, physically – of what it felt like to have a collapsed lung.

_That's too much to ask, Dick._

Jason had no idea anymore what had propelled him to walk all the way to the manor – if anything at all had in the first place.

Didn't know why he _loitered_ in front of the door.

Why it took him so long to leave.

Why he hadn't knocked.

Rung the bell.

Just went inside.

"Whatever," he snapped, forcelessly, but made more of an enthused effort to relieve his shoulder of Dick's offending hand.

His brother let him go. "I want you to promise me, Jay!"

No quietly echoing footfalls on his heels.

"Whatever."

And there it was – _finally_.

"I'm taking that as _your word_, Jason!"

Despite their impressive size, and splendour, the delicate-looking curves of mirrored W's, the gates were _old_.

"Shouldn't do that."

Sweet freedom. It was chilly, the breeze nipping at his face.

"And I'm holding it against you if you break that promise!"

_Go back inside, Dickie…_

_…_

"Good-bye, Jay!"

_…_

"Bye, Dickie…"

He was too far away to be heard.

And too far away to hear, "Come home soon, Little Wing…"

The sun shone after all, on the way back to his safe-house.

It rained anyway.


	2. Little Brother

_A/N:_ Thanks so much to _BW Lewis, Chronicles of Potter, lostsoul512 _and _kagome04_ for the lovely comments! I hope you make your way back to this new chapter :) Many thanks to everyone who faved as well (and those who followed even though this was meant to be a one-shot XP)!  
The nice feedback had my mind pondering this situation I'd created and I ended up adding like four chapters to it...heh. So, this is now a thing and there will be three more chapters following this one. I've been writing this chapter off and on all month, it's been really busy, so there will be no fixed update schedule for the remaining yet-to-be-written chapters, but I'll aim for one a month. That way it'll be done before next year and I can say I actually finished sort-of-a-story this year. XD

Despite the semi-plot in my head, I still largely consider this more an experiment than anything else, though. A play with words, characterization, action and reactions, intentions, dialogue...whatevs. Still, can't guarantee any actual _in_ characterness, just to be on the safe side. Feedback is more than welcome. :D Also, this isn't set anywhere specific in canon, either New-52 or pre-reboot. It's just floating aimlessly in the air. *shrug*

Thanks a lot for reading, and beware - Jason's potty mouth lies ahead. XP

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**{Replacement. Pretender. The Other. Another. Little Brother}**

Patches of clouds threaded across the sky were dark grey and heavy in winter, bleeding white and covering the world below in a mass of pale flakes.

In spring, similar clouds cried sheets of rain, the picture of smeared grey paint left running down the canvas.

It had much the same appearance in the fall, only worse-looking, what with the barren, lifeless, leafless world below instead of green, flowery springtime groves.

Even in summer the clouds never _really_ went away completely, always grimly covering what would be a bright blue sky anywhere else.

A clear, sunny day was a rarity in Gotham – about as rare as Jason on the front porch of Wayne manor.

…

Well, damn.

A pair of rarities in one day.

The world must be ending somewhere.

Again.

It had been more than five minutes.

He'd counted the seconds out exactly.

And another minute just to be sure.

Then another, just in case.

He stopped counting sometime after that, his mind taking to debating instead.

Technically, he was under obligation.

To knock. Ring the doorbell. _Do_…something.

Eventually he had his hand raised at the door, knuckles poised to rap politely across the wood, for another five minutes – by the drumbeat of his heart.

Maybe if he did it really, _really_ quietly, he could get away with honestly saying he had, like he never promised he would, but no one had heard, like he didn't want them to.

So he'd gone on his merry way, earnest in his belief that no one had been home.

Couldn't hold that against him, right?

He'd have knocked.

It wouldn't be his fault.

…

…

Dammit, this wasn't fair.

He hadn't _actually_ promised. He _hadn't_.

But Jason was nothing if not honest, at least – sometimes, _mostly_, about the things that counted – and cheating like that would be dishonesty.

It would gnaw at his gut though it had no right to, because _damn it all to hell_, he _hadn't actually made that promise_ – but it was still best he just not knock in any way, shape or form, turn on his heel, and _damn well just leave already_.

He could throw the unmade promise back in his wannabe brother's face if he ever bitched about it, and feel bad _later_ when Dick's deflated expression was a distant memory.

And it wasn't cowardice either – don't even think it. Jason Todd was no coward.

But he was no fool either.

A whole host of dangers lay beyond those broad wooden doors.

The kind that messed with your mind.

Shit Jason had no need of.

Scowling, mostly at himself, and only vaguely aware of a sense of déjà vu, he'd just turned to leave like he should have done over half an hour ago, when the door opened a crack.

He had the presence of mind – somehow – to actually look at who it was before he opened his mouth to snap.

If it were Dick, which was what he'd assumed on impulse, his self-proclaimed older brother was going to hear the sharp side of his tongue and then some.

While still in much the same vein and frame of mind, it would still be an entirely different verbal-whooping if it were a certain other person.

But he caught himself in time with a reprimand that if it were Alfred, he had no desire to scream and spit in the old butler's face – and, not only because he wouldn't deserve it.

Jason would be drinking milk for a week trying to quell the hellfire dancing on his tongue – he'd be deserving of it, too – there were more than a few choice swear words in the arguments he'd mentally prepared for both men.

Okay, "prepared" was a bit of a stretch – it's not like he sits around in his safe-houses memorising lines and thinking up counter-arguments and reasonable comebacks in case he gets into a verbal sparring match with either of them.

He really doesn't…

…

They just somehow find their way into his head and won't _leave_, that's all.

…

He tries really hard to forget those lines, too.

And the feelings converging on his chest, making it hard to breath, or think…or _hear_ – _anything_, but the screams, and the shouting, and the arguing – and the _crying_ – and every angry word he wants to throw in their faces _so damn badly_.

…

He doesn't know any more if it's because that's what he really _feels_ – still – or does it linger because he hasn't said it… is he saving them for an opportune moment – because imagining the expressions on their faces won't compare to the real thing…?

…And he _wants to see that_.

…

…

Ugh, _no_.

…

More often than not he feels…—_anxious_, that he really will throw up all the shit in his head – at Dickie, at _him_, at… even at the kid in the doorway.

He bites down on his tongue, he swallows the words, because… he _wants_, even more, to believe – like Alfred – they don't deserve it after all.

He's just being—

_Never mind_.

He's not _that_.

"Jason…?"

As it turned out, it wasn't any of the three older men in his—

…

…_not-family_, who'd come to the door, though.

Not Dickiebird, with the idiot-grin Jason wouldn't admit to _wanting_ to see on his face at the sight of his younger brother.

Not… and thank whatever deity for _that_.

And not Alfred, who conveyed just as much emotion in a single glance than either of the aforementioned, only with much more decorum. Jason wouldn't deny he couldn't mind facing that one…

The kid sounded…wary? – probably scared he'd get gutted with a knife.

Jason's not sure if he should be flattered or annoyed.

Door's not all the way open, but Jason can see all of Tim, except his right arm, behind the door.

For a moment he wondered if Tim had his bo-staff in that hand…

Jason narrowed his eyes, snapped from a half-second surprise at seeing the kid – didn't he have his own digs nowadays? Back with Daddy-Bats then (like Dickie?) – settling on annoyed, after all, at the boy's tone.

_Wary_, like Jason was there to hurt someone (granted, it was early yet, he might still slip into the notion – but that was no reason to be so obvious about it).

…

_Concerned_, like he'd read a wrongness on Jason's face (_well_, now).

And that was unsettling.

There was nothing wrong, except that he was _here_. But, indulging in the former, Jason stuck his hands in his pockets, turned back to the kid properly and fixed Tim's blue eyes with a glare.

"Replacement," he scathed appropriately.

Tim blinked, and then scowled, made to say something, but Jason cut him off.

"Where's Dick?"

"Out," he said shortly, and Jason pursed his lips in mock consideration, nodded a little.

"Oh."

He'd spied Nightwing jumping rooftops beyond the borderline of his territory a few times the last couple months.

A right spring-chicken after whatever bout of illness had had him under the weather; looking sickly and sleep-deprived when they last met in civvies.

Dickie stealing promises Jason had had no intention of keeping.

And he hadn't, after all.

"Is that all?" Tim asked, bordering on impatient.

Jason nodded, but made no move to leave, still spiteful. "Pretty much."

When the silence dragged on he was tempted to start counting seconds again, but Tim cut him off,

"You're still on the porch."

"Free country."

"Private property!"

Jason looked back at the kid, having let his gaze wander, seemingly unperturbed, "Well, if you'd been paying attention before, _Pretender_," he spat. "I _was_ actually on my way."

Not waiting for an answer he spun about, intent on marching back to his freedom beyond the gates, only to pause in his step once more.

"Uh – w-wait!"

He sounded…_determined_, in his uncertainty.

Which was weird.

So Jason turned back. Tim had stepped forward, one foot in the space between in and out, a hand raised, the other still hidden.

"Uh…" he settled back when Jason seemed to be staying, relieved of the tenseness jumping forward had caused and it made him seem…_smaller_.

A lot of things made Tim seem smaller.

Tim. Timmers. Timmy-kins.

Little Timmy.

Ill-equipped for this.

Timmy.

Timmy, Timmy, Timmy.

Jason had a knot in his stomach waiting to hear about another Joker incident and Timmy blown to smithereens.

He wasn't wishing it on the kid. Just didn't know how to prevent it.

"It's, um, hot out here, and Alfred—" Timmy started talking, faster at every second word, as he turned, off to his left, his bo-staff wielding hand finally making a brief appearance – Jason tensed involuntarily, inexplicably expecting a blow that never came.

Instead, the kid leaned over beyond the second, still shut door, where Jason couldn't see, towards – a table? There was a table there, right? With a phone, maybe, or…books?

He…

…

…couldn't remember—

Next moment he was presenting Jason with a glass. Holding it around the rim with his pale fingertips, nails neatly trimmed. He was still talking all the while, "—thought you might like some to cool you down…"

No response.

"It's…freshly squeezed…" had the vague lilt of an inviting question, and Timmy shrugged.

But Jason had his eyes on the neatly wrapped bandages around the boy's wrist, peeking out from under the wrist-guard that was bunching his fingers up together, seemingly too big somehow.

"And, you know… it's hot…" Timmy repeated.

Like a hypocrite, Jason was dressed in his practically patented leather jacket – never mind the heat – with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar turned down, but it would hardly take a genius to squint close enough and recognize it as the Red Hood's.

It was a stupid move, for obvious reasons, and if it were Dick in the doorway he'd be giving Jason a mouthful much like a younger second Robin had judged his thankfully short-lived ponytail-phase.

Beyond the impracticality of the thing, it had been such an eyesore anyone seeing it would remember whether they wanted to or not, and Dick Grayson would suddenly find himself yanked by the hair by one of Nightwing's enemies.

Moreover, the jacket really _was_ contributing to the heat never mind the pale red shirt underneath was thin and barely had any sleeves to speak of.

His jeans were thick and his boots were stuffy, too.

Maybe his hair needed a trim round the ears, down his neck. Just a little.

All in all, the makings of a hot, sweaty mess.

Alfred's freshly squeezed – lemonade? Timmy hadn't specified – could only improve his temperature and potentially prevent spontaneous combustion.

But Jason was still eying the injury a second or two too long, only snapping out of it when Timmy – seemingly awkwardly – shifted his weight, briefly glanced away.

Jason snatched the glass from Timmy's fingers perhaps more roughly than he'd meant, but, despite the warmth of his attire, he sought no refreshment from the coolness against his palm.

Timmy had noticed his inadvertent staring – of course – and, relieved of the glass, drew his wrist close and touched his free fingers to it as he – needlessly, because, dammit, Jason _didn't care_ – offered an explanation,

"Landed badly dodging a hit the other night – not enough room in the alley. It's hardly even a sprain, really," he shrugged, nonchalant. "But, you know Alfred," he smiled, a little subdued though it was, only half met Jason's eyes, "Better safe than sorry…"

"Hm."

Alley. The other night.

On the edge of Jason's turf.

He'd spied Red Robin leaving the scene of a potential drug exchange – would-be buyers zipped-up tight and left for pick-up, sirens blaring in the distance.

He'd had a guy down there himself, for intel mostly, since there was little known about the new merchandise – rumoured to be more expensive than anything else and lethal besides.

Not a high, but a poison instead.

Jason needed confirmation before he could decide how to handle it.

Buyers were useless for info, seller had gotten away – Jason's guy too, of course, Red Robin none the wiser. But it hadn't helped Jason any.

Absently he wondered if that was his excuse for coming down to the manor this time – exchange notes with the red bird since they were obviously working the same case on opposite ends of town.

…

No, that wasn't it.

He hadn't come to see Timmy, after all.

He was looking for Dick.

Looking to see if his pretend older brother would make good on _his_ promise to haul Jason's ass across the threshold within five minutes of his loitering.

…

…

Apparently he'd picked a bad day for it.

…

Timmy stood looking at his wrist, Jason at the condensation around the glass in his hand, for almost another full minute before they both made to speak—

Timmy was quicker, "You could come i—"

"No."

He was glaring at the kid, just out of reflex, but apparently his successor was made of stronger stuff because he didn't back down, "But – come on, you can't stay on the porch all day—"

"That's why I'm leaving," he held the still-full glass for Timmy to take, but the younger teenager made no move except to briefly scowl at it.

He'd have said something more, probably, if Jason hadn't offered kindly, "This goes in your hand or over your head. Pick."

"Ugh. _Jason_," hand then. He sounded exasperated, but Jason—_Didn't_. _Care_.

He turned right around, sweaty palm returned to the pocket of his jeans as he sauntered off – scowling ahead when Timmy followed (the drink abandoned on the porch with a quiet _clink_ as it was set down).

"Jason – seriously—"

Jason quickened his pace.

Kid kept up effortlessly – kept up the yapping, too.

"We wouldn't mind—"

_I would. I do, in fact._

"I-I wouldn't mind—"

Though fleetingly, he _did_ ponder taking the kid up on that invitation after all, just to show him why he _should_, in fact, be minding too.

"And Alfred would like to see you, and when Dick gets back he'd be ecstatic—"

Jason snorted, just on principle.

"And," _hesitation_. Part of him saw it coming. The other part was refusing to even think or acknowledge or mentally have anything to do with _him_, so of course that was the part that reacted – and badly.

"Bruce—"

Timmy's real mistake – because hearing the name he could still potentially ignore, but – was putting his hand on Jason's shoulder as though to halt him.

Jason stopped, whirled around, snatching the offending limb even as the kid actually let him go, "_Enough!_" he snarled, low and feral, his fingers squeezing, twisting as he turned, "Just _shut u—_"

"_Argh—!_"

Jason's words drowned out with the sound and he released Timmy's wrist at once. The boy's left hand clutched at it reflexively as his breath hitched, caught audibly in his throat, his expression pinched with pain.

"_Shit_, Timmy, I'm sorry," Jason panicked, rushing closer like he wasn't already close enough, hands hovering without purpose, "I forgot, I—" he cut himself off abruptly, brain catching up.

He couldn't do more than stare, though.

The kid was breathing out slowly, controlling the pain in whatever measure he could manage, just like the Bat had taught.

Now a hero in his own right though, just like Nightwing, Red Robin probably had more tricks up his sleeve that the usual for managing his pain, so when the kid raised his head, however slowly it was, peering at Jason through his dark bangs, there was no more trace of hurt – only surprise. A little disbelief in those blue eyes.

(Still, if the wrist wasn't sprained before, it certainly was now, if not worse)

"You called me '_Timmy'_," he breathed, barely audible.

Jason shook his head, stupidly, face burning.

Regaining his senses, he straightened abruptly, glaring daggers at the Replacement.

Pretender almost looked…_sad_? at the change. Like Dick would.

Well, screw them both.

Screw all this shit.

Shit he _did not need_.

He whipped about and all but ran to the gates, eyes fixed on the stylized W's adorning the portal to his escape.

"Ja—"

It sounded like "Jay". Like his nickname.

But of course Jason knew that wasn't it – Replacement had only stopped himself, realising it wouldn't matter if he called. Jason was leaving, and that was _It_.

He wasn't coming back, either. He'd wasted enough hours perched on a porch where he knew – he _knew, dammit_ – he didn't want to be.

Inexplicable, then, the way he glanced back at the Replacement – only to glare? – unable to hear or see the younger boy's feeble "_I'm sorry, Jay_."

His cheeks were still on fire as he left the manor behind – the heat in his neck, on the tips of his ears, and burning in his chest to rival the blazing sun overhead.

Anger. Made his hands shake.

He shed his jacket somewhere along the way, clutched it in one white-knuckled hand.

Its absence brought little relief, though.

Every continued step still drenched him further in sweat – his shirt sticking to his fever-hot skin.

Every heartbeat echoed a throbbing already loud in his head, nursing it affectionately, encouraging it to pound quicker and quicker.

Still, he _needed_, desperately, to be gone from there, as far away as possible.

So he kept up the pace, heated beneath his sweat-slick skin, pained in the head and sick to his stomach.


	3. Interlude

_A/N: _Not one of the three chapters I mentioned previously - this is a bit of an interlude. I should be updating again closer to the end of the month. Welcome new followers, I'm glad there are people interested in this :) thanks for the faves, and _ucalyptus_ for reviewing :D (you gave me an idea... ;) thanks). Please feel free to let me know what you think. :)

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**{Pride and Prejudice}**

"'Low' …No.

"'Loo' …?

"'Loo-ee.'

"'Loo-ee…T.

"'Loo-eat'?

"'Loo-eat-er'?

"'Lweter.'

"'Leat'...

"L… 'Low'…

"Ngh…_no_."

"Cass."

"I…do not know. This? _This_."

"'Loiter'." Tim supplied helpfully, looking up from the laptop balanced on his crossed knees to find the word Cass was pointing at where she held the book over the back of the couch for him to see.

"'Loi.' …'Loi'?"

He nodded encouragingly.

"'Loi…ter'?" she tested it slowly, and Tim smiled.

"'Loiter,'" she repeated with a satisfied nod and raised the book back to a comfortable eye-level. Tim returned to his research as she resumed her pacing, only to interrupt him again two strides on. "What…does it mean?"

Tim opened his mouth to reply, only for Dick to beat him to it.

"It's that thing Jason's been doing for the past hour," he said derisively, from his spot next to the almost wall-length window. "Out on the porch. Just _standing there_."

Tim watched his older brother's back, eyebrows raised, "He's _still_ out there?"

They'd plopped down on sofas in the lounge over an hour ago with varying tasks of importance – Cass practising her reading, Tim researching his latest case (hacked into the Bat-computer downstairs through his laptop) – for Dick's benefit.

He'd caught a nasty cold during the winter and it had carried over into spring. Gotham's generally chilly climate probably wasn't helping his recovery any, but he _was_ making better progress in Alfred's care than he would have in Blüdhaven by himself.

Tim suspected Dick was actually enjoying the excuse to be at the manor, anyway – and loving it even more that his younger siblings were staying over to help him recover. And to keep him company.

Dick didn't do cooped-up very well, and the four walls of his bedroom had started closing in despite the almost ever-present company. In search of a change of scenery thus, and only _after_ Alfred's permission of course, they'd moved down to the lounge just off to the side from the foyer.

Lengthy wide windows provided a view of the front yard and the gates in the distance – as well as the porch if you stood just right in front of them, or had been bundled up on the armchair nearest the windows, generally facing the rest of the room, like Dick had been. Tim had turned the seat a little for him, for a better view of the grounds, and had taken a corner of the couch facing the windows for himself, Cass pacing at his back.

The older man had sat gaping for almost a full minute before Tim and Cass had looked up from their respective tasks to notice.

Dick hadn't believed his eyes, and, pushing blankets aside he'd wandered to the windows in what Tim could only describe as a _trance_.

"Dick?" he'd asked, alarmed, but Dick in his mesmerized state hadn't even heard. He nearly pressed his nose against the window, through the lace curtain, to see.

"Dick!" Tim had snapped, bounding up from his seat and rushing to his brother's side, wondering if they'd misdiagnosed him or something. Was his fever up again – was he hallucinating something? "What is it—?" Tim started, grabbing hold of Dick's arm with both hands, head whipping round to look through the window as well—

His breath caught when he saw him.

"Jason." Cassandra declared needlessly from just behind them, watching the younger boy from between Tim and Dick's heads. She'd never actually seen him before – not in the flesh.

She'd left for Hong Kong before he revealed himself resurrected and…slightly insane, the way Tim told the story, but… watching him now, she could hardly believe it was the same boy on their porch Tim had been talking about.

He seemed more…_broken_, than anything else.

The anger Tim had described was still there, plainly present if residing just beneath the surface now, but… the malice, the vengeance, the _blood-thirst_ Cassandra had imagined in him to match the stories she'd heard was…_strikingly absent_.

Perhaps, if she squinted, she could see where those empty spaces were, where once her imaginings had resided, after all.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Tim's voice was fierce, if somewhat strained, his words a mumble through grit teeth, and his grip on Dick's arm tightening slightly.

It snapped the young man from his bewildered state – he'd thought it a trick of the light, figured he was only tired, when he saw the younger boy coming up the driveway, but… the closer he came, looking so…Dick could only describe it as '_lost_' – the more Dick believed he was real, and believed he _really was_ seeing things all at the same time.

A side-effect of his medicine maybe?

Should he be asking Timmy if he was seeing it, too?

A bubble of joy was threatening to pop in the pit of his stomach and it took every _ounce_ of his being to stop it surging through him and bursting free elatedly – this was almost too good to be true.

He was sick. _Definitely_ sick. In the head.

Only, Timmy _had_ seen him, too, wondering aloud why the hell he was there.

The thought had crossed Dick's mind as well, and would again over the course of the hour, but he'd pushed it aside initially, to marvel some more at the seemingly impossible fact that his little brother was home.

His little brother _was home_.

And, _of his own volition_.

'What the hell' was right.

"Timmy," Dick had said, Tim relinquishing his hold on Dick's arm when the older man moved, wrapping the limb about Tim's shoulders instead. "It's okay. He's not here to hurt us. Maybe he just…" Dick waved his free hand through the air as if to snatch up the right words in passing, only there weren't any.

"He's…not doing anything," Cass had observed with a frown, "Not…_planning_ on doing anything…"

"Maybe we should—" Dick had started, moving as he spoke, hands on Tim's shoulders, making to go around him to the foyer, to the front door – only to cut himself off when he saw Alfred through the doorway.

Weathered old hand raised at the doorknob, the other pressed properly against the small of his back. Eyes shut, the old man sighed, _resigned_, before his hand retreated, was clasped firmly about the wrist with long, calloused fingers instead.

He turned, _set_ in his task, and made his way from the room, his back to them, headed perhaps for the kitchen. Head still bowed.

Dick's shoulders slumped.

Tim had noticed the butler as well, "What – we're just leaving him out there?" Dick didn't know if that was incredulity or indignation.

"Maybe we should—" he'd meant to suggest something specific, but in fact, "…Maybe we _should_. Jason… he'll _knock_, or…something, when he's ready. We shouldn't force him into it. He's made it this far on his own, we should respect whatever he decides to do now," but Dick sounded decidedly pitiful to Tim's ears and like he wanted nothing _more_ than to decide for Jason. "Whatever _he decides_," he added in a whisper.

Tim had stared at him, a little at a loss for words. Dick had patted his shoulders absently then shuffled back to his chair, snuggled up and kept his gaze on the window.

Tim had followed his movements with a frown, shot a wary scowl out the window, and retreated to his laptop once again.

Dick stayed silent. Cass returned to her muttered reading as she paced up and down in front of the room-wide bookcase, occasionally climbing the sliding ladder to pick a different paperback for perusal. Tim was so caught up in his research; he hadn't even noticed Dick getting up to go back to the window again.

How long had he been standing there?

The lack of pounding against the front door, or a ringing bell, or angered yelling, or a myriad of echoing gunshots, had Tim of a mind that his supposed-to-be older brother had left the estate. But…apparently not so much.

"Loiter…" Cass leaned over the back of the couch, next to Tim, her eyes on Dick as well. The word had the lilt of a question at the end, but she realised it was wrong and added, "—ing?"

"Apparently," Tim replied, deadpan, as he set the laptop aside and stood.

Joining Dick by the window, he crossed his arms.

Jason stood in virtually the same position as before. Definitely loitering.

"This is ridiculous," Tim commented, shaking his head. What was Jason thinking?

"He's…leaving," Cass mumbled at their backs again, and Tim narrowed his eyes.

Indeed, not a moment later Jason had turned on his heel.

"Leaving," Dick echoed, distressed, and bolted from the room at once, barely pausing to snap at Tim, "Don't stop me, Timmy," when the younger boy tried calling him back.

Dick had the door flung open before Jason had properly reached the steps.

"Jason – come inside," Tim heard, and shrunk into himself, crossed arms tightening, a little. Frozen beside the window, he watched with a scowl as Dick followed their wayward 'sibling' down the way, the front door swinging shut almost inaudibly behind him.

"You do not think he will…_hurt_ Dick," Cass had taken up Dick's vacant spot to Tim's right. It wasn't a question, but he shook his head slightly and answered anyway.

"No, he… if he wanted us hurt he wouldn't have just stood on the porch for an hour, I…think," he sighed, deflated. "I don't know. Jason…" an exasperated noise escaped him, he couldn't explain it.

Cass nodded a little though – of course she'd understand. Somewhat, at least.

"But…you're still…tense?"

Tim sighed again, trying to relax, "I just…don't trust him, I guess. Not after everything."

"Dick…trusts him, though."

"Dick's…too soft," Tim mumbled, barely audibly, not sure if he really believed that. It wasn't that it was a bad thing about his brother, either – being 'soft'.

Dick cared – _immensely_. About everyone. Even the ones who didn't seem to deserve it – the misguided ones, like Jason, and the ones who didn't know better and didn't seem to care to… like, Damian.

But Tim…_couldn't_ quite seem to. Couldn't bring himself to care so devotedly, unconditionally, without judgment, or ridicule, and without _expecting_ to be betrayed.

Don't get him wrong – Tim did care, _that way_, for a lot of people – Dick, and Cass, and Bruce, Alfred, Steph—

But Jason…didn't _deserve_ that kind of love, and Tim simply couldn't give it away so freely – was baffled by Dick's ability to and felt…_lesser_, for his inability to manage it too. Maybe a little envious of Dick, even.

But there was no logic behind it – it was all emotional, impulsive acrobat, it was just—_Dick_.

All _logic_, all _reason_, pointed at Jason simply betraying their trust first chance he got if not only when it suited his agenda, taking advantage of Dick's devoted attempts at coaxing him back into the family, and blowing it up in their eldest brother's face – _again_.

_That_ was why Tim was tense.

Tim wasn't afraid of Jason, but he _was_ scared by him. The lengths he went to. The boundaries he pushed. The things he _did_. Almost unspeakable, unthinkable things that spoke of a madman's misguided crusade for unfounded revenge.

…

Well—_mostly_, unfounded.

Bruce was _constant_ – Jason shouldn't have _expected_ to find the Joker buried.

As for Tim… well, Batman _needed_ a Robin. It had been part dream-come-true, part occupation, part _duty_, more than anything else. As the boy who'd been watching them – _Bruce_ – fall to pieces, he _couldn't _just_ stand aside_ and _let it happen_. He'd thought… part of him had thought Jason wouldn't have wanted that – wanted his…_father_, to break like that.

But all Jason saw was a pale imitation of who he'd been – a sorry excuse for a substitute to the partner Batman had lost. A damn…_replacement_.

Part of Tim had never meant to stay, would have easily stepped aside for Jason, but… Jason had never even given Tim a chance to explain.

He was surprised to discover how much that _stung_.

This was some sort of trick – Jason just showing up like this. It _had to be_.

"He's…_broken_," Cass's quiet proclamation cut through the silence, startling Tim from his thoughts and hastening his now-lowered gaze to the window. If Dick—

But…Cass wasn't alarmed, and, Tim realized, she hadn't been referring to Dick.

He blinked, watching Jason – farther down the driveway now, headed for the gate even as Dick followed, hands gesturing as he spoke – and found he looked in perfect health.

"I don't—"

"Something is…_wrong_."

Tim glanced briefly at Cass with a pensive frown. Outside, Jason spun to face Dick (a second time), an angry expression on his impossibly youthful face. If Tim didn't know any better, he'd have pegged Jason at the same age as himself. A side-effect of the Pit.

Along with the madness. If something was wrong—

Tim shifted his weight, ready to sprint out there if needed—

But, looking at the exit, he saw Alfred in the foyer again, front door slightly ajar as he peered out.

Fleetingly Tim wondered how much Alfred had wanted to invite Jason inside before. How much he wanted to berate Dick for being outside, and call the both of them back in…

Alfred was not a fool man – if he still believed in Jason…

Or, maybe…maybe in this one regard, Alfred _was_ being foolhardy.

The old man closed the door and Tim turned quickly back to the window less he was caught staring, in time to watch Dick wave a hand and Jason throw up his own, clearly exasperated. He bowed a mocking little bow before he smirked and turned away.

Dick let him go – if only for a beat, before he rushed after his other brother, clamping a firm – and probably unwelcome – hand onto his shoulder.

…

"What do you mean 'wrong'?" Tim asked.

Several beats passed as Tim let her gather her words. If he was ever going to learn the truth about Jason's intentions, his state of mind – his _sanity_, even – this was it.

"He's…confused," she said at last, voice quiet, tone filled with…sympathy. "He came…_home_," she emphasized, and Tim spared her a glance, but he could hardly read her expression. "Only…to _realize_ this is no longer…home. He is…unwelcome. And then – _now_…he does not know…where to go. He wants to…stay. But…can't. Knows…he can't.

"It…hurts," her voice had dropped into a breathy whisper. "It's…_painful_," she turned her gaze from the window, eyes narrowed at the floor instead, "To watch."

Tim stared, a little wide-eyed, not at all certain about how to react to that.

Jason had thought…this was home? He thought he still lived here? Was that what she meant?

…Until he came up to the door and realized it wasn't true anymore.

Tim couldn't imagine.

Absently, he shook his head. This…_made no sense_.

When Dick shuffled back into the room, he looked…forlorn. More ill than before he'd left.

"Master Dick," Alfred appeared over his shoulder to escort him back to bed before Tim could offer the same. Dick nodded, dragging his blanket off the armchair and wrapping it round his shoulders.

"Good idea, Alfie," he passed by Cass, and Tim, planting a kiss atop each of their heads, smile a little wan but present.

He paused in the doorway to look back at them.

He'd tell them all about it later, and he'd ask Cass what she thought of their lost brother, too – _after_ a well-deserved nap.

In the meantime, though, "He'll be back," he promised them.

* * *

_A/N:_ as a sidenote - Cass is reading either _Pride and Prejudice_ or _Sense and Sensibility_ *shrug* Her mental reference to Jason as her *younger* brother, if you noticed, is because he technically is - Bruce says they're about the same age, which I'm taking to mean they were born the same year, but Cass was born in January and Jason's birthday is in August. So there. XP Correct me if I'm totally wrong.  
If it wasn't clear already - this is the first chapter from Tim, Cass and Dick's points of view.  
(Also, deviating from canon here, Bludhaven clearly never blew up *shrug* I might just be chucking a really important plotline I'm totally unaware of with that, but...meh? XP)  
Thanks for reading! :)


	4. Beauties and the Beast

_A/N: _Thanks so much to **D, IndigoElle** (thanks, I'm glad you like it!),** won't be the Victim **and **Chronicles of Potter **(glad you came back :D) for your reviews! I'm glad you're all enjoying the story so far.

We get into the _actual plot_ a little with this one. I've never written Stephanie before, and I'm not too experienced with Babs either, and while Cass always feels really _easy _to write, I could very well be doing her character just as much damage as anyone else's. And oh em gee, _Alfred**. **_So, much apologies beforehand, and please let me know how I did.  
Also, since this is an *actual* chapter, not an interlude, we're back to Jason's POV and Jason's bad language XD

* * *

**{Beauties and the Beast}**

The ever-increasingly cold breeze nipped at the sides of his face, combed his fringe back from his forehead – a blur of white tipped black in and out of his peripheral like a phantom, a spectre only there when he wasn't looking – as he marched up the driveway, fists clenched at his sides, steps determined and unfaltering.

By the time he'd reached the ornate gates and pushed them aside, he'd stopped thinking up excuses with which to explain his presence to whoever opened the door.

Not for the first time either, did he find the ease with which the gates parted for him suspicious, and in the same vein he shoved the thought aside, again, no desire to dig too deeply into what _that_ might suggest.

Just as before.

And before…

Only one purpose stuck at the forefront of his mind as he trudged up the way, eyes focused on the looming wooden doors of the manor – imposing and impressive.

For the first time it occurred to him that, he'd never been as in awe of the manor as he might have been – by the time he saw the outside of it, glittering windows in the sparse Gotham sunlight, big brown doors, balconies and dense, flowering shrubs, sprouting creepy crawlies like veins up the walls, he'd already spent a night inside.

He'd never glimpsed the splendour from afar and paused, gaping up at its grey stone walls, stunned to silence by its majesty. Not only for the look of it, either, but for the legacy it carried.

Jason could actually respect the latter. Could understand the origin of the daunting weight settling on his shoulders whenever he approached the estate and had to look up to see the high rooftop, the castle-like cornices adorning the manor like a crown.

He had to wonder if he was the only one under the invisible pressure – as the lowest, most unforgivable, treacherous, wayward son, adopted though he'd been, of Wayne there was?

Were a million Wayne-eyes, ghostly apparitions in the windows, trained on him whenever he sauntered down the driveway – piercing gazes narrowed, judging, snarling, rebuking, disapproving of him, wishing him away by sheer force of will?

Perhaps that was why he loitered, rebellious by nature – a nature not of theirs – to taunt them back? To shuck off the heavy weight of their gazes and drop it at their own doorstep, only to stay defiant in their sights as long as he could manage rather than skip away, lighter than before, or enter, even, into their midst, free of their scorn – but – where they could not see him anymore…?

What was a rebellion worth when no one was looking?

That was only a rambunctious child playing pretend by himself.

Jason was no longer a child.

…

He did not come to be defiant, either, though.

Not this time.

It was his own fault he was so out of the loop.

He'd spent the last few weeks in a safe house, perfectly determined not to set foot outside, where the world was steadily turning shades of molten gold and yellow ochre, deep dark brown, burnt umber and bright orange tinged red against a backdrop of dreary grey.

Only when he could finally hold it no longer – a desperate, burning desire to _know_ a fire kindled in his belly – and it was plain they were never going to find him, he was too well-hidden – and they, perchance, too busy to try – did he at last leave the safety of his nest, determined in his task.

He had to know.

He had to _know_.

If they'd been too late.

If they'd _been_ at all.

If all his effort had been in vain.

He could _feel _the hope inside, wishing it hadn't been for nothing, though he had no courage to voice it or even properly _think_ it.

Jason couldn't dare to hope.

Not when it involved _him_.

There had been no hope for Jason himself, after all – in a warehouse, a gazillion miles from home, bruised, broken and bloodied. Betrayed.

…A lot of b's going on.

…

—_Shit_.

When had it become a joke?

Fuck.

That had been the entire _point_ though, hadn't it? To be _funny_.

_Hopelessly_ _funny_.

Why would this time be any different?

Why would there be any hope for the baby bi—

—but.

Fuck.

He didn't want to think like _that_, either.

Best to just not think at all.

Better simply to act.

He was good at that. Impulsive, sure – on occasion, he wouldn't deny. But, more often than not he liked to consider himself a _bit_ of a strategist.

He liked to plan it out. Assess the situation.

Contemplate every possible routine.

Weigh one outcome against another. Evaluate the consequences.

Pick a path.

It only ever _seemed_ impulsive, to everyone else.

Except when it actually _was_.

Maybe this had been, just a little.

Because shit. He was _thinking_ about it now – wavering.

He stopped abruptly, hand raised inches from the door, frozen more than halfway through a motion that would have undoubtedly caused a hollow echo reverberating through the halls inside.

He very suddenly found it hard to breathe – consequences flitting through his mind, a sickening fear spreading its fingers through the fiery _want_ to _know_, oddly unafraid of the flames, seeming instead immune and intent on smothering them.

What the hell was he doing?

Almost thankfully, he was spared having to answer that thought, when the door to his right – not the one beyond his raised left fist – swung unexpectedly open.

For fuck's sake he actually _jumped_.

A _little_, dammit.

Only a little – and why the hell not? He was on edge. Even fuckin' _Nightwing_ would've pissed his panties. Probably.

"Barbie," he very nearly _croaked_, his throat was so dry.

Not that she was any kind of Barbie-doll – in the sense of long-legged and tanned (though she had been that before, still kind of was), platinum blonde and baby blue-eyed with a red-lipped smile and a freaky fashion fetish for all things neon pink.

The nickname just kind of fell off his lips, habit now more than anything else because he knew it annoyed her – or maybe it was just the _way_ he always said it – plainly spiteful and obnoxious – because at present, she didn't have her eyes narrowed at him, no twitch at the corner of her – sometimes red, actually – lips in response to his address, which had been decidedly devoid of the usual tone.

Part of him was a little _too_ surprised to see her, because he actually hadn't – not like this – since his return from the literal grave.

In hindsight he should probably have expected her presence though – she shared in Dick's sentiments that they were all somehow _family_ in some form or another, though she'd never been considered a sister. You don't lock lips with your sisters, after all (—_Dick_).

The pointedly-being-ignored bubble of hope in Jason's chest swelled a little at Barbara's presence, naively thinking if she were here then probably Replacement was, too, and they had found the idiot, after all.

It was a fleeting feeling, however, because Jason noticed almost at once the swell around Barbara's – blue, in fact, and bespectacled – eyes, one part sleep-deprivation, one part resultant of too many tears, made doubly obvious by the red rims around those blue orbs, and little scarlet veins adding to the evidence of exhaustion as they criss-crossed their way through the white.

The bubble in his chest seemed fit to burst with strain – of fear and disappointment this time. Had they been too late? Had _he _been too late?

Was this Barbara mourning _another _dead Robin…? Had she come over to…comfort Grayson, probably, who would be a blubbering mess after losing another brother – and Alfred (_oh, Alfred)_, and… and Bruce.

Did his little—

Did his _replacement_ have a glass case with a tattered uniform to match his own?

What did _his_ plaque say?

_A Good Robin._

_…_

_Another Good Son._

Jason bristled, and then felt a little ashamed for it.

If Tim was dead – and it took every _ounce_ of his being to not just assume the worst based on Barbara's eyes alone – well, then…

_Shit_.

And being jealous would be petty.

"Jason," she said, and Barbara's tone was a practised calm. Jason realised she'd sat there for all of ten seconds before she'd spoken.

_Sat_. There.

Confined to her wheelchair.

…

Maybe that had been part of his surprise at seeing her, even though he'd known about it. Still.

Talia al'Ghul – Batman's baby-mommy and Jason's…whatever the hell she'd been (saviour, mentor, mother-figure, friend, person-thing) – had kept Jason well-appraised of the Bat-family's fortunes and misfortunes once she'd dipped him in a healing Lazarus Pit that either returned his mind to its former – albeit teenage – glory, or screwed with his sanity.

It was how Jason first learned of his replacement. And of the new, suspiciously quiet Batgirl that resembled her mentor so much it was stomach-curdling – to anyone she crossed paths with anyway.

And, of course, of the Joker and his still-beating black heart, still-breathing lungs, even though he'd _murdered_ Batman's Robin – and then some.

There hadn't been any vengeance for Barbara either, though, granted, she hadn't _died_ like he had.

Still, Joker's bullet could very well have done more than to paralyse her. Jason had idly wondered at some point, if she had died as well, would Batman have been driven to revenge after all? At the loss of a second partner?

Would Commissioner Gordon have avenged his daughter if the Bat would not?

His daughter who also just happened to be Batgirl.

Would they have done it together – for his daughter, and for his long-dead son?

Would Babs have come back from the dead, too?

…Babs.

Dickiebird called her that.

_He_ might have lost it, Jason mused, if Joker had killed the love of his life.

It would have broken him, afterward. Jason knew that much. Knew about Dick's reaction to the thought of Joker hurting Tim, and knew about his reaction to him hurting the Joker to the point he was _basically_ dead.

Dickiebird wouldn't survive another loss of control like that. He'd be drowning in _misplaced_ – because there'd be nothing guilty behind that son of a bitch getting what he deserves – guilt.

And _dammit_.

If Timmy was dead, Jason was doing it himself.

If Timmy was dead…Jason's eyes very fleetingly flickered to the second floor windows, as if he could see Dick standing there. In the middle of his room, fists clenched, lips twisted, teeth grit in a snarl – the picture of hopeless frustration, bound by the Bat's cruel, unfair sense of morality ingrained in him alongside the marrow in his bones.

_Don't fret so much, Dickie. I'll make sure at least _one _Robin gets the justice we all deserve._

"I assume you're here to see Tim."

"No," he answered at once, Barbara's voice snapping his gaze back to her and his thoughts from its morbid revenge-takings.

Her eyes did narrow at him then, lips thinning as she regarded him, and Jason cringed inwardly at the quickness of his answer.

"No," repeated more slowly, more calmly. "I was just—" but no, he had no more excuses, but no desire to actually explain his presence either. "I don't want to see him," he settled on instead, firmly, because it was the truth.

He only wanted to know. He had no desire to see.

"Wait," he started, only just realising what he was saying – what she was saying. "Ti—the Replacement is… _here_?"

Barbara leaned back in her chair, fingers taping at an armrest. She nodded slowly, after a second, ducked her head, "Yes."

There was very little relief in her tone. It sounded more ominous than anything else.

"And, he's…"

"Alive," she supplied, which told him absolutely nothing.

Nothing good, at least.

Baby bird was _not_ okay.

Jason's bubble of hope had disintegrated entirely.

"I…" he started into the silence. Kid wasn't dead, at least, but he wasn't alright either. Jason didn't need to know more than that. He _certainly_ didn't want a catalogue of the little bird's injuries – physical, mental, emotional, and/or whatever shit else there was.

He was not okay. That was enough.

Apparently, there was vengeance to be had, after all.

"Got to—" he was going to finish that sentence with 'go', and then leave very determinedly, but—

"Sorry, I'm ready now, we can—_holy crap_, you're Jason Todd."

"No kidding," he replied, eyes narrowing, fingers twitching with irritation.

Stephanie Brown was – more the Barbie-doll personified than Barbara – an ex-Robin, too. Cut from the same cloth of abundant recklessness as Jason himself, _apparently_. It got her fired before it got her killed, and then she died, anyway – only she _didn't_ – and now she was Batgirl, which…the Dark Knight either had no say about, or didn't actually mind, after all.

Truth be told, Jason should admire her tenacity or something, but at the moment all he could manage was annoyance.

Stephanie was Tim's ex-girlfriend – and apparently he had Dick's same penchant for staying friends with exes – and he was upstairs, somehow _not okay_, and she was down here _smiling_.

There was a bounce in her step as she appeared behind Barbara's wheelchair, a lightness to her tone, a pleasant curve to her lips and a happy glint in her – completely different form Barbara's – blue eyes (even if they were also _obviously_ freshly dried of tears).

It grated at Jason's skin.

Jason couldn't imagine even _Dickie _– who was the sole definition of happiness, for fuck's sakes – _smiling_ while their little—

_Shit_.

His. _His_ – as in _Dick's_ – little brother was somewhere upstairs, not okay.

"Wow, that's one intense bat-glare," she remarked suddenly, blinking at Jason before she leaned a little towards Barbara, "Or is that just his normal expression…?"

The corner of Barbara's lips quirked up into a little smirk, briefly, but she didn't reply. Stephanie didn't seem to actually want an answer anyway, though Jason didn't give her chance to—

"Don't compare me to him," he snapped, and then felt stupid, because it sounded childish.

The girls didn't reply. Instead, Stephanie said, "I assume you're here to see Tim, and Bruce."

Barbara shifted in her seat.

"_No_," Jason scathed, harsher than he would have if she hadn't mentioned Bruce.

Stephanie frowned and pursed her lips like she disapproved of that about as much as Jason had of her smile.

"Well, you—"

"—should," came, quietly, with the swing of the left-sided – from where Jason stood – door, enough to reveal a short, half-Asian girl, dark hair pulled back, her eyes brown-green and peering up at him as she curled round the door, a tattered-looking book Jason couldn't see the cover of clutched to her chest.

_Damn, baby bird _– apparently Dick really was rubbing off on the kid – who else was going to jump out of the woodwork just to see him?

Huntress? Batwoman? _Cat_woman? _Wonder Girl?_

That last one actually seemed likely.

And then, none of them did – as secret identities went, the three Batgirls were the only ones in the know. Jason was only mostly assuming. And yes, he was just going to collectively refer to them as the Batgirls now, for ease of monologuing – though he knew Barbara went by Oracle now and Cassandra, that was her name, had passed on the mantle to Stephanie.

She was stationed mostly in Hong Kong, according to Jason's Intel – no longer Talia, as a side – but Jason had glimpsed her flitting across rooftops, either patrolling or searching for Tim – or both – the past month. Two.

…

Almost three.

…

…His stomach twisted just thinking about it, so he stopped.

Cassandra Cain was a weapon, Jason had thought, watching her work, too curious not to, even though he really hadn't had the time – his lead had already been old by the time he picked up the trail and getting colder by the second. Still, it was _him_, so it was worth it.

Pretty Bat was lithe and agile enough to rival Dick – flexible in a way few of them truly mastered – and tall, despite her lack of _actual_ height, fierce and commanding enough to rival Bruce – invoking fear with little more than a _look_.

She went by Black Bat, Jason had heard, which, he'd thought, was only a little redundant since bats were already black – or so went the general assumption, anyway, but who was he to criticize, really? He went by the colour of his hood. Not technically, but if you didn't know the history there you wouldn't think anything else.

"You…_want_ to."

It took him a moment to realise what she'd said.

His arm had come down from the door at some point he didn't remember, and he clenched his fists at his sides now, so tight the leather of his gloves squeaked with the strain.

"Like _hell_ I do!" he snapped, glaring daggers at her.

She didn't even flinch.

"_Hey_, no need to be such an a—"

But Barbara's hand came up, almost lazily, and Stephanie cut herself off, just as Jason turned his glare back on her.

"Let's just go, Steph," Barbara said, tone dry. "Jason's a big boy. He knows what he's doing. And I'm late, besides."

She regarded him over the rim of her glasses, and Stephanie didn't hide her scowl either, grabbing hold of the wheelchair's handles. Cassandra made no move to help, and Barbara's fingers curled securely round the armrests as Stephanie made to wheel her right down the porch's steps.

She only made it so far as the first edge before Jason had come round to the front of Barbie's perch, fingers reaching for the armrests, only _just_ not touching them as he met Barbara's gaze, "Let me…"

She didn't seem surprised in the slightest, though Stephanie had halted the chair a little abruptly. Jason chose to ignore that. Both of that – all of that, really, he needed no remarks on his behaviour. It was the decent thing to do and that was it.

He had no doubt Stephanie and Barbara had probably done this before, or else strong little Cassandra might have jumped in – not that Jason knew enough to assume, but she was a Bat, it seemed to go without saying. Only, he was there and doing nothing, plus Barbara seemed peeved at him, which sucked for some reason, and he didn't know how else to apologize for whatever the hell he'd done _this_ time.

Gaze unwavering, which only served to make his skin crawl, Barbara released the armrests and brought her hands up, making room for him. Grip sturdy, he gave Stephanie a quick glance before they lifted the wheelchair in tandem, hovering it just enough to move it smoothly over the steps and place it safely down on solid ground again. Jason kept his eyes on his hands, well-aware of Barbara's on his face.

Leaning a little forward put her face inches from his own, still bent forward as he was, and Barbara's hands came back down to settle on his wrists, squeezing slightly. He flinched, looking up at her.

Her eyes looked hazy, but serious, through the glass, and her deep red hair framed her face, spilled over her shoulders in waves of _fire_ and _blood_.

"_Thank you_," she said, so low he didn't think the others could hear, and Jason's brow furrowed – she couldn't mean this. "For what you did for Tim."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he replied, just as quiet, if so much more strained, before, jaw firmly set, he made to straighten, intent on forcefully plucking his arms from her grip, but she let him go without protest and he stepped back, trying to remember how to breathe.

Stephanie gave him a pensive look he pointedly ignored, even as Barbara turned her gaze away, started pushing herself in the direction of the car. "Let's go, Steph, Alfred shouldn't be long."

"Right…" and she wandered after Barbara, Jason's gaze following them both for a moment – he hadn't even seen the car parked off to the side when he'd approached the manor, too fixated on the doors.

That right there was an _excellent_ display of his night-work skills.

Alfred was probably driving them home, but the car in question was much too expensive to be anyone's but Bruce Wayne. Jason contemplated how _not long_ Alfred would take and how fast he'd need to walk to get back to the gates and disappear without them passing him, when—

"Wait," Cassandra spoke, not as quiet as she had before, but still as firm, and Jason, skittish as a cat for crying out loud, felt his shoulders twitch. The shorter girl – barely making it to his shoulders – skipped down the steps towards him, holding out her book, pointing one finger at it, "Read. Please."

Jason snatched it only a little less politely than he could have, still a little irked, and read the title aloud, "_Beauty and the—_" he cut off, not only recognizing the too-large, slanted and half-crooked letters scribbled with a thick Sharpie, but the roughly bound book with its thick cover and curled pages as well. He knew if he opened the book there'd be a couple pages at the beginning in his own handwriting, the pencilled words probably faded and the paper yellowed with age, the rest neatly typed out on thick white sheets, finishing the story. "…_Beast_. This is mine," he finished with a stunned mumble, before he gathered himself enough to demand, "Where the _hell_ did you get this?"

"I'm afraid that was my doing…Jason," came the reply, even as Jason looked up to glare at Cassandra – who had her head curiously tilted at him, but said nothing. She hadn't been the one to speak; instead, the culprit stood just over her shoulder – tall and slim, and forever dressed in a neat black and white suit as if he owned absolutely nothing else—

_Alfred_.

There had been only the _briefest_ of pauses before Alfred had said his name, as though he'd never hesitated, but that only made the absence of _'Master'_ all the more striking. Jason was no longer a master in the manor.

"My apologies, young sir. Miss Cassandra expressed the desire to read to young Master Tim," Jason only _just_ managed not to shudder repulsively. "And as you might recall, Master Bruce rarely keeps a story on his shelves. I directed her to your collection instead…" Alfred's weary eyes fell on the book Jason was unconsciously clutching with all his fingers, and rested a gloved old palm on the cover. Alfred didn't look at him when he spoke again, but Jason couldn't keep his eyes off the old man's face – it had been _too fucking long._

"I'm afraid I'd quite forgotten your penchant for rewriting library books in your own hand, before you could type them out. Cheaper than buying them, you used to say. More honest than simply keeping one. And I believe, apart from your many Robin trinkets, your library card was your most prized possession."

Jason couldn't add to the conversation for the lump in his throat, though he did manage a weak nod. Alfred's head came up and Jason lowered his gaze, no desire to catch sight of whatever disappointed expression Alfred felt fit to grace him with. The old man's hand slipped non-committedly from the book to straighten his coat.

"_Do_ step inside, sir," Alfred said, in that tone Jason had heard so many times as Robin and brooked no argument. "Before you catch a cold. For all that winter is still coming, the chill is hardly bearable."

And then he was gone, stepping almost regally towards the car. He'd started it up and was backing out the driveway before the feeling returned to Jason's fingers.

For all that he'd been 'saved' from the streets and adopted by Bruce, was trained by him, had been his partner, his failure, had called him…_Dad_, on occasion… Alfred was the one who'd raised him.

A single one-sided conversation with the man and Jason had the same sickening churn in his gut that he had months ago – when he'd called Tim _Timmy_, of all the damn things. He was still doing it, too, if only in his head – being _very careful_ not to repeat it aloud.

"You're more than welcome, you know…"

Jason's head snapped up, a firm scowl on his face as he locked eyes with Dick, who stood on the porch's first step. Jason shoved the book at Cassandra, not quite bothering for her to actually _take_ it before he let go. For all her grace in a mask and cape roaming through darkness, the girl scrambled awkwardly to stop the book for falling. Jason had spun around to leave before he could tell if she'd managed.

"_Wait_," Dick called, _of course_. "Where are you going?"

There was an itch between Jason's shoulder blades. A quick, throbbing pulse in his neck. A twist to his stomach and an ache to his head. Honestly, he couldn't care less where he went as long as he went _away_. But he thought of Timmy. Still not okay.

"Something I got to do," he answered offhandedly, though his tone was strained, throat still dry, not certain why he was replying in the first place.

Though he'd started walking off, and not exactly slowly either, he could still hear Cassandra's quiet input – to Dick – "The Joker."

He quickened his pace, clenched his fists, and would have marched right down to the gates without falter, no matter _what the hell_ Dick tried to say to stop him – dead or alive, baby bird deserved a little justice, they _all_ did – only—

Of all the things Dick could have _possibly_ come up with, _this_ never even _made_ the list, and Jason couldn't do anything else _but_ stop.

"Joker's _dead_, Jason."

* * *

_A/N:_ This would have been longer, actually, but I just _don't have the time_. I _need_ to start studying for my exams (_ugh_), so no updates until after the fifteenth. I'm planning on working Dick and Jay's conversation into the following interlude so I can include Dick's POV, maybe, and there should be some Tim, some more Alfred, and maybe a little Bruce if I can swing it.

Meanwhile, anybody want to take a guess at Timmy's condition...? XP

Please feel free to leave a review! It's really appreciated. :) Thanks for reading!


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